As soon as I am through the doors, it feels like home. The unmistakable strong scent of chlorine, the humid air, the sound of splashing of water.
Fuck I've missed it.
I see the swimmers in the water, puffing and red-faced as their coach gives them instructions.
I'm caught off guard by the emotion I feel: relief. Relief to not be them right now.
I missed this place—a lot—but I'm starting to question if I actually missed the swimming...
Maybe I just missed doing something? Maybe I missed the location? Or worse, maybe I missed the people? —missed Andy and I shit talking early in the mornings, missed the team's debates on whether pineapple belongs on pizza or not, missed when Oliver's lip would tug every time I challenged him.
Maybe I missed when Coach would let his serious mask slip for a minute, and joke around with us. When Oliver is out of breath after a race, and his eyes flicked to me, no matter who was the more competitive competition, his eyes always found me.
My appreciation is cut short when I see Coach across the room talking to some of the freshman swimmers. I duck behind swimmers walking by, dropping my head low and angling my face away. I think I'd take my chances that Oliver would be more lenient than Coach.
Or maybe, a tiny voice in the back of my head thinks: Oliver might just be easier to persuade.
It's funny how quickly I picked up Oliver's schedule. I unconsciously learned it at the start of the year, when his presence was so insufferable to be around , that I made an effort to not be around him for too long. To not hear everyone suck up to him and fawn over him.
It feels like a lot has changed since then, and I'm not exactly sure when it started.
I go to the locker room. I pass a few people in there, weaving through the lockers to where I figure Oliver is, right at the back where all the 'A squad' lockers are.
And there he is.
He's shuffling through his bag with his head hunched over and wet hair curling at the ends. His hair is darker damp, and his shirt is sticking slightly to his damp chest. He looks frustrated.
Maybe I would have tried to decipher it more, but seeing him sparks me in a mood.
I shove him into the wall. Roughly.
Oliver stumbles back into it, caught off guard. Surprised.
Was it unnecessary? Probably. Did I get satisfaction from it? Yes. Am I proving how bipolar I am to him? Definitely.
All I know is that I want his eyes on me, his body close to me, and I have an explainable feeling towards him. I pretend it's anger.
He blinks. I push him again so he is pressed up against the wall, and he lets me.
He lets me crowd his space, he lets me fist his shirt, he lets me hold him against the wall. He lets me get in his face.
He lets me.
And I know he is letting me do this—because he's stronger than me. He's proven it time over time that he can easily overpower me at any moment. I've seen him swim. I've seen him at the gym. I'm not blind, I've seen his physique.
But he doesn't stop me.
And it confuses me and eggs me on.
His brows are furrowed. His skin smells like chlorine and he's still slightly damp from his swim session. The locker room is emptying now, the time everyone has finished up.
"Beau? What are doing here? You're not allowed to be here." His voice is more concerned than disciplinary.
I scoff, "Really?" the sarcasm is dripping from my voice.
God I'm a dick.
He grimaces when I push him further into the wall, but he doesn't stop me. "Okay," he says, his voice measured. "Is there something you want from me?"
I let out a bitter laugh. "Want from you? I think you know what I want.."
He listens patiently, eyebrow arched in waiting, head tilted slightly to the side as he looks down at me.
"I want to fucking swim, Oliver. Tell coach to let me come back already—he listens to you!"
He sighs, a short release of annoyed air like he's talking to a child. "You have three more days, Beau."
"I want to swim. Now." I know I sound like a child, a child demanding they get a toy they want. But his proximity is fucking with my brain and I can't find it in me to care.
"Suck it up," he bites back angrily.
I narrow my eyes and he sighs, running a hand down his face.
"Look," he says more gently. "Not everything in life has to be about swimming, alright. There's more to life than winning medals—" he rambles on, but I'm not really listening.
I mean, I'm looking at his lips—but I'm not interested in what words they are saying. It's probably some motivational inspiring shit that he's spewing, the team loves that crap. And I have no doubt it's good... it just, I got my eyes on something better.
My mind on something better.
My hand holding his collar drags down his chest.
He pauses, cutting his speech off abruptly.
My hand drag down his chest slowing at the rim of his shorts. He catches my wrist before it can go any further.
"What are you.." He clears his throat. "What are doing?" There's a warning to his voice, an edge to it.
"I'm convincing the captain that it's in his best interest to let me swim.." My voice is more breathy than I'd like.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat. "No, you're not. You're not fucking doing that because you want to fucking swim again."
There's a flare in his—and not in the way I'd like—but in anger.
I've never heard Oliver swear so much, it's jarring, surprising, hot.
Except he doesn't put up much resistance when I pull my hand from his grasp, or when I slip my hand under his shorts. His hands fist my shirt, but not to push me away, but to stabilise himself.
He lets me...
In fact, when my hand wraps around his member, he slumps into the wall squeezing his eyes shut, leaning his head back on the wall. He says fuck under his breath.
I lean further into him. "Aren't you going to stop me?"
He makes an intelligible sound at the back of his throat. "Fuck you." he manages to grunt, his breathing uneven.
I grin, biting down on my bottom lip harshly.
He is putty beneath my hand, his breathing heavy and eyes lidded as he watches me stroke him. I grip him tighter. He moans, his head falling to my shoulder, his breathing rough.
His lips sloppily graze along my neck, and his hot breath brushing my skin makes me shiver. He feels hot and heavy. His uneven breaths sending pelts of hot heat through me.
"Let me swim," I breathe.
He groans. "This isn't fucking fair."
There it is again. His swearing. Fuck.
"Suck it up," I repeat his own words back to him.
He grunts, biting my neck. I yelp in shock, feeling his lazy smirk against my neck. He leans more of his weight on me. His breathing is hot on the junction between my shoulder and neck, lips wet as they graze my skins
His breathing is controlled by the pace of my hand, and I can't deny I like it.
It feels weird, to have control and power over someone who holds so much of it all the time. To have the man who is always collected and composed a moaning mess in my hand.
I slow down my hand and he makes a noise in the back of his throat.
"Beau." It's a pained groan mixed heavily with desire.
"Let me swim."
He struggles for a few seconds, trying to not give in.
He grunts. "You're a little bitch, you know that."
I grin, stroking him slower.
"Fuck. fine. Whatever you want," he resigns with a rough breath.
And that's the answer I want, but not the sound I want.
I move my hand again, faster, forcing the sound out of him. He's panting now. And my shorts feel really tight.
His fingers loop into my jeans, pulling me harshly against him. His head lifted to look at me.
His eyes are darker now, eyes lidded and voice husky. "Your lucky, you know."
He makes it obvious that he's the taller one, that I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.
"Why's that?"
"Because you're the only one is can get away with this shit." He flips our positions. "But you're not the only one who can be convincing."
His hands slip under my shirt, pass spreading over my chest and fingers curling into my skin almost possessively. Heat pools in my lower stomach, my mind is hazy with desire.
He tugs my bottom lip into his mouth, biting down playfully. He gently pushes my back flat into the lockers and kisses down my neck, my adam apple, and my throat.
The locker room's door opens with a bang, it's a distinctive sound that is undoubtedly recognisable.
I jolt back, caught off-guard, banging my hand on the locker behind me with a thump in the process.
I wince, and it's not because of the pain.
Oliver grabs the back of my head with his hand frowning, smoothing the spot gently with his fingers.
We can't see who it is, because there are lockers used as a sort of wall, blocking our view of the door.
"Oliver, that you?" A thick French accent calls, a male voice.
The exchange student.
I grind my teeth, pushing off the lockers to leave. But a firm hand is pushing me back in place, isn't letting me.
An annoyed expression clouds Oliver's face and he clears his throat when the footsteps start to get closer. "Yeah, I'm here." His voice is raspy, a little lower than usual.
I push against his hand again, but he still doesn't let me leave.
Son of a bitch.
Before he let me, he let me, he let me—and now he doesn't let me.
He's the one in control now. He let me be in control, and he isn't afraid to show it.
"Good. Would you like to grab food? I saw this place near the College we could—"
"Can't sorry." Oliver interrupts, eyes meeting my annoyed expression, eyes glaring up at him.
Move, I mouth to him. Instead, he puts a hand between me and the direction of the exit, bracketing me in. He pushes his hips into mine, trapping me between him and the lockers.
I have to bite my lip to muffle my groan.
The footsteps get closer but Oliver hand and hips are still holding me in place. Hard.
"Alright, what about tomorrow? You can show me around the campus a bit maybe? There's this—"
"Yep. Sure. Whatever." he says rushed, eyes running over me hotly.
The footsteps stop. And I let out a small breath of relief, glad he's not going to walk around the lockers.
"Awesome, I'll talk to you about it at training tomorrow." He says too eagerly, and then he's walking back out the door.
Oliver's hand is already twining into my hair, manipulating my head to the side, tilting it to give him more skin as he drops his head to my neck, kissing a hot wet line.
It's hot. he's hot. But my stomach feels cold. The idea of him and the exchange student together made me cold.
I take out the feeling on him.
I think it's about time I return the favour of what he did to me at the last swim meet. Not because I'm trying to mark him or anything, just an eye for an eye ya know.
I bite and suck the skin along his neck, his collar, top of his chest. Teeth scrapping and hard, he doesn't complain though. No, he takes his shirt off and offers me better access to more skin.
Even after I've visibly bruised his skin, it doesn't satisfy the full of me. Doesn't rid all of that heavy anger in my chest.
I bet the exchange student is hot, he sounds hot. And I bet he's a lot nicer, and a better swimmer. Oliver couldn't really want more than this from me? He can do so much better, he must know that.
I don't want to just be another person who falls under Oliver's spell. So whatever this is, it has to be a one-time thing.
It leave me no choice but to hate Oliver. I have to. Hating him is so much easier than wanting more from him. Wanting something I could never have.
Hating him stops me from being delusional. Being hopeful. And hope is dangerous thing.
"We still hate each other, right?"
"Mmm, sure," he murmurs distractedly, kissing my lips like he could never get bored of it.
"Like... a lot." I gasp out as his tongue runs over my skin, running over my throat and adam apple.
"Right," he hums, lips finding mine again.
Plush skin on skin creating delicious friction. I don't think I could ever get sick of his lips.
"Like—fucking loathe each other," I pant, saying between kisses when he allows me the chance to get air. Which isn't very much.
His teeth dug into the soft skin of my lip, tugging it into his mouth and I moan. He groans a deep throaty sound from the back of his throat in respond
"Yeah. Hate ya. Now take your shirt off." he demands, allowing some space between us so I can do so. His eyes anything but golden and pure.
I pull it over my head, my heart beating double time and lava pooled in my lower stomach.
"This doesn't change anything" I murmur, eyes appreciating his chest, his smooth skin, the hickeys I left
Oliver pauses a second, hands stilling on my chest. Eyes flaring. "Fine," he grunts.
His hands find my zipper and my head lolls back into the lockers. In no time I'm moaning again.
But no matter how hard I try, right now—in this moment, I really don't hate Oliver. No one bit. Not at all.
***
Author Note:
Hope you enjoyed the chapter. It's starting to heat up, I'm exciting for the next part. I would've liked to edit this a bit more, but it's been awhile so I thought I wouldn't keep u waiting any longer.
Also you guys are pretty cool. I've been totally surprised and caught off guard but the support I have been given for the story. Every nice comment means the world. I did not expect this when I started writing this story. I just had a scene in my head and couldn't find a story that was one I like it. One that had the elements I wanted. I wanted a story of hate, one when you hate someone so much because of how perfect they seem and how inferior you feel. So I wrote it, and turns out some other people like it too, which is really cool.
I usually write when the creativity flows to me, but you guys force me to chase and tackle it, and force it to stay with me haha. Also, guys, my favourite Author on here is following me back. And I think I'd die If she read my books.
Anyway, have a good rest of your day and vote if you want the next chapter ❤️
Love y'all